The Wandering Jew — Volume 02 eBook

About ten o’clock in the morning, Mahal the
Smuggler set out with this despatch (sealed) in his
possession, to board the “Ruyter.”
An hour later, the dead body of this same Mahal, strangled
by Thuggee, lay concealed beneath some reeds on the
edge of a desert strand, whither he had gone to take
boat to join the vessel.

When at a subsequent period, after the departure of
the steamship, they found the corpse of the smuggler,
M. Joshua sought in vain for the voluminous packet,
which he had entrusted to his care. Neither was
there any trace of the note which Mahal was to have
delivered to the captain of the “Ruyter,”
in order to be received as passenger.

Finally, the searches and bushwhacking ordered throughout
the country for the purpose of discovering Faringhea,
were of no avail. The dangerous chief of the
Stranglers was never seen again in Java.

[7] It is known that the doctrine of passive and absolute
obedience, the main-spring of the Society of Jesus,
is summed up in those terrible words of the dying
Loyola: “Every member of the Order shall
be, in the hands of his superiors, even as a corpse
(Perinde ac Cadaver).”—­E. S.

CHAPTER XXIII.

M. Rodin.

Three months have elapsed since Djalma was thrown
into Batavia Prison accused of belonging to the murderous
gang of Megpunnas. The following scene takes
place in France, at the commencement of the month of
February, 1832, in Cardoville Manor House, an old feudal
habitation standing upon the tall cliffs of Picardy,
not far from Saint Valery, a dangerous coast on which
almost every year many ships are totally wrecked,
being driven on shore by the northwesters, which render
the navigation of the Channel so perilous.

From the interior of the Castle is heard the howling
of a violent tempest, which has arisen during the
night; a frequent formidable noise, like the discharge
of artillery, thunders in the distance, and is repeated
by the echoes of the shore; it is the sea breaking
with fury against the high rocks which are overlooked
by the ancient Manor House.

It is about seven o’clock in the morning.
Daylight is not yet visible through the windows of
a large room situated on the ground-floor. In
this apartment, in which a lamp is burning, a woman
of about sixty years of age, with a simple and honest
countenance, dressed as a rich farmer’s wife
of Picardy, is already occupied with her needle-work,
notwithstanding the early hour. Close by, the
husband of this woman, about the same age as herself,
is seated at a large table, sorting and putting up
in bags divers samples of wheat and oats. The
face of this white-haired man is intelligent and open,
announcing good sense and honesty, enlivened by a
touch of rustic humor; he wears a shooting-jacket
of green cloth, and long gaiters of tan-colored leather,
which half conceal his black velveteen breeches.